I love this article! Chris Colin of The New York Times interviewed a woman, who at 68, learned to swim and now, four years later, is a daily lap swimmer. This is a great reminder for any of us who tell ourselves that we’re too old to try something new. Is there something you’ve been putting off because fear gets in the way? Is there a new sport or hobby you’ve been drawn to but you think it’s too late to try? Read this interview for some inspiration . . .

A lovely tribute to a beloved cousin as shared in the latest Writing Through Grief workshop . . .

Yesterday I lost my cousin Jeff. He was only 57. He left behind no one but my dad, a couple of my siblings and myself. There will be no fanfare, no obituary, funeral or flowers. But there will be memories of how his life intertwined with mine.

He and I were born a mere 26 days apart and he was my only cousin remotely close to my age. Given away by his birth parents then given up on by his adoptive parents he was tossed into the system and eventually ended up on the streets, before he could even shave. My parents tried to get custody when he was 14 but were denied.

I was deep asleep when a loud bang woke me, the bed shaking from the impact. I sat up and groggily, called out, “was that an earthquake?!” More awake, more alert I answered myself, “No, we’re in Kauai.” I turned towards my husband, expecting to see him sitting up but he was sound asleep. That is, until the second blow to our mattress. I had watched my husband kick his leg up, as if kicking a soccer ball, and then slamming it down on the mattress. This goalie kick woke him.

He sat up. “What the hell was that?”

“You…” Before I could finish, he got out of bed, mumbled, “restless legs,” and left the bedroom.

Down in our basement we have storage compartments for each member of our family. If you looked in my son Michael’s compartment, you would find climbing gear, camping gear for long backpacking trips, ski equipment and maybe even a plastic kayak which barely fit. My husband’s closet would look similar, except for the kayak. Instead, you’d also find snow shoes and poles. My husband preferred wood kayaks that he made and kept hung up on our garden wall. My daughter had gotten married and emptied her storage unit. So, I converted that unit into a wine cellar. That’s my space.

I also have another storage area by the furnace. In there you will find crutches for when I broke my knee walking the dog, (I tripped) and my walker for when I broke a hip playing golf. You ask, “how does one break a hip playing golf?”

It’s been a year since pandemic isolation started, causing the end of last ski season. Skiing and teaching skiing have always been a joy and my passion, but this year has felt different. Added to the increasing traffic were long lift lines, skiing in masks (and goggle fog), limited inside warm-up opportunities, and much more hassle.

Hours spent in Little Cottonwood Canyon traffic has offered plenty of time to reflect and push the “pause” button. “Am I part of the problem?”

I sing of aches and pains and stress and strain

A sonnet for the athlete who is old.

They say without the pain there is no gain,

At least that’s what Olympians are told.

With the average age of 87, these writers recount other trying times and how they’ve gained perspective and resilience. Amanda Holpuch of The Guardian offers up their stories and how they are adapting to pandemic life and connecting on Zoom. A shout-out to Jill Meyer for sending me this uplifting article!

“Late at night, Peggy Strait sits at her computer and thinks about the dangers of living in New York city during a pandemic.

Then she remembers her life in 1937.

Our memories fade, sometimes because we’re aging and sometimes because it’s better that way. The painful memories of childbirth and the sleep deprivation of the first few weeks/months of parenthood fade, else no-one would ever have a second (or third or fourth) child. Similarly, I now know from personal experience, the memories of parenting a new puppy fade.

As I sat down to write a year-end wrap up, it was hard to get the words out. I wanted to write about gratitude but really, what did I want to say about a year that brought us a global pandemic, exposed the divisiveness and disparity in our country, and revealed the fragility of our democracy? Not to mention devastating wildfires, hurricanes, and an earthquake in Salt Lake City. As I started to write the “silver linings” of this awful year, what came out sounded cloying to me. While genuine (I am truly grateful for Howard, my kids, my family and friends . . . and wine), my words rambled on the page and felt hollow. Frustrated, I did what I normally do: procrastinate. Scrolling the internet, I read, “How to Make Freezer Friendly Breakfast Sandwiches” and “A Century After Phony Flu Ads, Companies Hype Dubious Covid Cures.” Then I found, “One Sentence That Will Make You a More Effective Speaker.” Last article, I told myself. Enough procrastinating. I’m glad I continued to read.

Giving each to the other.

Each burdened by their past.

Each hopeful for the future.

Striving to find themselves in the eyes of the other.

Hoping to see within the other who they are.

The good and precious deep within.

I don’t know about you, but I’m wrung out with pandemic fear and fatigue, terrified about the election, saturated with the news, and dread the shorter days and the impending cold. There is way too much to worry about these days. Having said that, I still fight the urge to doom scroll in spite of my better instincts. All of this worry just creates more anxiety which ends up as ruminating thoughts and questions swirling around in my head. What’s the future of our democracy? How do I stay safe and keep my family safe? What’s this winter going to look like?

Congratulations to the 2020 Silver Pen Writing Contest Winners:

• Overall Best Entry: #22 August Wolf Morning, by Gayle Six

• Best Prose: #16 The Fire, by Judith Hegewald

• Best Poetry: #2 Layers, by Rosemary Baron

This photo was taken on our last week’s hike up Collins over to Sugarloaf and down Albion basin.

Although we were on the lookout for moose (none spotted), Howard was able to capture this amazing picture.

In an online writing class this summer, I’d given the following writing prompt, “What if . . . .” Participants had 10 minutes to write whatever came to mind. Here is Bob Bader’s response:

What if I were never born? The sun would still rise and set each day. The birds would still sing and the bees buzz. Flowers would still grow tall and give off sweet fragrances. Girls would still dance and boys, oh boys, would still be a pain to girls. That is, until the boys were older then the pain would be of a much different kind intermingled with sweet love.

My dear friend, Jane, passed along this beautiful poem on aging which she found on Facebook. It’s written by Jeanette Encinias, a poet and book editor. It’s hard to believe that Jane and I met over forty years ago as awkward sophomores at college fraternity party . . . we’ve been friends, aging together, ever since.

Beneath the Sweater and the Skin

How many years of beauty do I have left?

she asks me.

How many more do you want?

Here. Here is 34. Here is 50.

from elegant

golden blossom

new pale green babies

evolve

into slick

emerald green

cylinders

joke

of summer harvest

If any of you have taken my classes, you know that I’m a huge fan of keeping a journal. Especially now, when there is so much unknown in the world, writing can help us sort through our thoughts and feelings. Writing allows us to unload all of the muck swirling around in our heads and transfer that onto the page. There are numerous benefits from this.

“In the past 30 years, hundreds of studies have uncovered the benefits of putting pen to paper with your deepest thoughts and feelings,” writes Kira M. Newman in Greater Good Magazine.

“Each one of us will face an unexpected person who appears in our lives — and they’ll need YOU…”

Two experiences — one last summer in Millcreek Canyon and one many years ago in Europe — impart a powerful lesson: We are where we’re meant to be.

In a recent online writing class, I’d given participants two writing prompts, “open the box” and “leaving.” They had 10 minutes per prompt to write whatever came to mind. Below are Bob Bader’s responses:

“Open the Box”

Open the box of chocolates and enjoy, Sanders, creamy dark and luscious. She slowly removes the wrapping and passes the box around, pick one. A special treat on a special day. You are young or so young. Time is short or so short; but you don’t know that now. No, for now, all there is her and that box of chocolates.

The Silver Pen 2020 Writing Contest is taking submissions. You can choose one of the two writing prompts, or if you prefer, write a personal essay of your choice:

CHOOSE ONE OF THE FOLLOWING:

• A turning point in my life was when . . .
• Once, when no one was looking I . . .
• Write a personal story of your choice.

ENTRY DEADLINE September 2, 2020

Judy Martin finally retired at age 70 after over 30 years of enjoying herself as a business owner in the financial services industry. Now sheltering in place, she’s attempting to maintain her sanity through her ongoing pursuit of painting.

As the world has sheltered in place over the past few months, there are have been so many great essays and articles written about our new reality. Yes! Magazine recently published a wonderful collection of short, insightful and poignant essays written by ten people over 60. Here are some “sneak peaks” of a few of them. I invite you to take a look!

A few months ago, Zoom was foreign to me and I rarely used Skype and FaceTime. Virtual teaching was something I’d occasionally thought about but dismissed it as too cumbersome or impersonal. Really, I’m a technophobe. Then the pandemic hit and virtual classrooms sprung up everywhere. The only way to teach was online.

Bare Basics (Survival Series #1)

The Guest House by Rumi

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all! . . .

. . . Right now, I invite you to welcome whatever emotion you are feeling at the moment into your “home” as a guest, whether it be anxiety, fear, grief, sadness, anger, frustration, or helplessness (the list goes on).

While I vacillate between stretches of calm and momentary bursts of panic, it’s taken an earthquake in Salt Lake City, on top of a global pandemic to wake me up. The message for me now, more than ever, is to be “in the moment.”

While the earthquake put us all on edge (understatement of the year), it was a huge lesson: I can’t predict what’s going to happen today, tomorrow or a month from now. With a few aftershocks fresh in my mind, I can’t predict what’s going to happen five minutes from now. I need to just remember to breathe and remain in the present moment.

In normal times, I have anxiety; I’m an expert on worrying about the future, ruminating about the “what ifs?’ and worst-case scenarios. The “Coronavirus Symptoms Checklist” is on my desk. While I’ve never been obsessive about germs or washing hands, now I question everything I touch — handling mail, swiping my credit card, or going shopping becomes fraught with danger. (Please don’t get me started on the gentleman who was coughing behind me at the grocery store a few days ago.) I won’t list who I’m worried about because honestly, it’s every single person on the planet.